


Edge of Reality

by RIShan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Loss, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester/Top Gabriel, Breeding, Dark fic, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Sex, Hurt Sam Winchester, Kidnapping, Loss of Identity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Pregnant Castiel, Pregnant Sam, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Gabriel, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Trust Issues, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RIShan/pseuds/RIShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans are demons in disguise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural, Human AU.  
> Enjoy.

 

Pain blooms behind tightly closed eyes, body sore and aching.  His headache only intensifies when he hears the idle chatter of nurses, talking nonsense as they work.  He hates all the noise.  It hurts and makes him want to scream but everything he does only makes the pain worse.  The whir of machines beside him is an annoyance that causes him to grit his teeth as the sounds make him lose his sanity second by second, drip by drip from the IV digging painfully into his hand.

He feels like he was ripped open and he hopes the pain stops.

Tired, red-rimmed eyes flutter open and his heart seems to beat faster.  The pain in his head flares with the bright lights blinding him, rendering him useless.  He gasps as tears rolls down pale cheeks which are acquiring a dull grey hue from the constant pain.  His body feels heavy but the numbness that was once there is gone.  He feels the pain in every fiber of his body.  He’s more than useless, he’s hopeless.

He has prayed every second in hopes of someone finding him.  But as he looks around, his eyes slowly accustomed to the blinding lights, he knows that no one will find him.

His hands, which lay beside his body unmoving like lead, slowly rise and he places one on his stomach.  He feels sore but he bites his tongue to stop the scream from escaping when he shifts on the sterile bed.  White hot pain flares right where his scrotum is and travels through his entire body.  His back arches off the bed and a sob manages to leave his dry bloodied lips.

His tongue wipes at them and he tastes the metallic tangy taste in his mouth.  His breathing is erratic, his heart pounding inside the cavity of his chest which heaves in effort to calm his growing panic.

And he can’t help the cant of his hips.  A grimace mars his pale face when he feels something, something sticky and wet, between his thighs.

The door creaks open and a lone figure stands in the entryway, the only entrance and exit.

He panics.

His breathing worsens as he scrambles away from the familiar figure in an attempt to escape his fate.  He’s scared and the fear consumes him.  He doesn’t want this.  A weak protest falls from his mouth but the figure doesn’t stop and instead advances inside the room.

With latex gloves, a hand curls around his ankle as he’s dragged onto the edge of the bed.  He tries to fight, he truly does.  But like every time, it’s futile.

The man hushes him, caresses his tear stained cheek as he’s carefully undressed.  He kicks at him but the hold around his legs tightens and leaves bruises.  The pain makes his attempts pathetic and he whines low in his throat, begging for it to stop.  The man, the doctor, simply cocks an eyebrow as two nurses enter the room and place his legs in stirrups.

The disgusting feeling on his thighs worsens with the cool hospital air caressing his exposed skin.  He feels vulnerable, bare and naked in the eyes of his tormentor.

Fingers gently lift his limp penis and probe at… at _something_.  His back curves when an appendage enters him, enters him through an opening that _shouldn’t be there_.  The stretch burns and he cries out in pain.  He cries and begs for him to stop.

He doesn’t understand what they did to him and the gown slides down just a bit to expose his stomach.  A cut is stitched just below his navel and nothing makes sense.

He’s terrified.

What has this man, this _monster_ , done to him?

He feels sick.

Before he can choke on his own vomit, he manages to lean over his right side and throw up on the tiled floor.  His body is wracked with tremors he can’t control and he’s gasping for breath that won’t reach his lungs.  The man slaps him displeased for making a mess.  The tears fall down his cheeks and mixes with the drool and blood running down his chin.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I won’t, I won’t do it again, I’m sorry, please stop, I can’t, I don’t,” he sputters, begging and crying hoarsely.

The man tsks and orders the nurses to straps his legs wider apart, the leather bounds tighter.  His screams fall on deaf ears and when the thorough exam is done, he’s left with vacant eyes staring at the wall across the small room.

It’s small, four walls, four constricting walls that cage him in.  He feels trapped without an escape.  Frankly, he’s tired.

He’s tired of fighting, of trying.

He’s tired of hoping.

His green hazel eyes are dull, almost lifeless.  The doctor is pleased.  A small victorious smirk plays on his thin lips.  His glove-free hand pats his trembling bare thigh as he smiles at him with something akin to tenderness.

“Soon,” he whispers.

His head lolls to the side and he looks at the doctor with pleading eyes, tears clinging to long lashes steadily fall and soak the pillow underneath his head as they roll down his temple.

“You’ll be bred soon, my pet,” the doctor promises, “my Sam.”


	2. Chapter 2

He stares at the unconscious body before him but he bites his lip, afraid of the punishment that awaits him should he mention anything to the personnel.

As soon as the door slams closed, the metal lock sliding into place, he kneels beside the bed where the body is.  A small shiver runs through his spine expecting the worst but his frayed nerves calm when he sees the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest that appears like a boy as he sleeps.  He notices his breathing is a bit weak but it’s reassuring and he doesn’t know what to do with himself for a moment.  He hasn’t interacted with anyone for almost a month and the fact that they have placed a submissive in the same room as him is only slightly unsettling.  That means there’s a new dominant.  With his luck, the new dominant might be for him.

A soft groan grasps his attention and the boy shifts with a painful grimace.  Avoiding the blink of the camera in the corner of their room, he moves forward and peels the covers away, carefully lifting the hospital gown.  There’s no blood and no sign of infection.  He breathes a sigh of relief.  He never expected to crave human interaction before but he’s so glad this boy survived that he could cry in joy now.

“Where am I?” The boy asks, his voice raspy, and it causes him to cringe before he’s scattering to get a plastic cup filled with water.

Struggling he helps him sit up in bed, a sharp intake of breath the only indication of the pain he’s in.

He guzzles the water and is left panting when he finally breathes.

The man rises and stands beside the bed, shuffling his feet uncertain of what to do.

“Where am I?” The boy asks again.

He doesn’t reply, because he’s not sure _where_ they are.  He’s been here for almost a month but only knows the snippets of conversations he manages to eavesdrop on.  It isn’t much when most of it involves medical terms he doesn’t understand.  He knows though, that he’ll be assigned a dominant soon since he has “healed quite nicely,” as Lilith said.

“Who are you?”

 _That_ is something he _can_ answer, “I am Number Three.”

“Number…  Three?”

“Yes, you are Number Six,” he nods.

“I… No, my name is Sam,” he replies.

“You are Number Six,” Number Three insists.

“What are you–? My name is Sam,” he argues.

Number Three glances at the corner of the room and Sam follows his line of sight, his mouth forming an “o” shape when he sees the red light flickering as the camera records their every movement.

“W-What do they want?” Sam asks, desperation tinting his voice.

“Your babies,” Number Three replies.

“What?” Sam questions startled.

“They… want us to procreate,” he says.

“Us?”

“Not you and me, you are most likely assigned to a dominant already, after all dominants are a surplus compared to us submissives.”

Sam looks at the person in front of him as if he has lost his mind.  He’s about to retort that he has lost his mind but as he shifts in bed he whimpers in pain.  The sudden, familiar, burn snaps his attention and he strips as fast as he can.  He sits naked in front of a stranger who has lost his mind but… but that doesn’t compare to the horror he feels when he realizes that… that this isn’t… _can’t_ be his body.

“What did they do to me?” He gasps.

He sees an inflamed cut stitched neatly across his abdomen just below his navel.  He can’t help but part his legs when he remembers the pain radiating in his private area.  He can’t quite see but he feels a new opening where his scrotum should be.  Tears wells up in his eyes and he covers his body with the thin sheet that does nothing for the air conditioned chill in the room.  His body trembles in revulsion and he wants to gag.

“Number Six,” the man before him begins.

“Get away from me!”  Sam yells.

“Please, Number Six let me–”

“You monsters!  What did you do to me?!” He screams and thrashes hoping this man will get away from him, leave him alone.

“Sam,” his name is whispered.

Sam looks at the man in fear but he sees sadness in those blue doe eyes.

“You will only hurt yourself,” he says.

“What do they want?” Sam whimpers.

“I… I do not know their purpose but they want us to… reproduce.  They want an offspring to be born of our bodies.”

“But we’re… we’re guys,” Sam says.

Number Three shakes his head, “There have been others before you.  Others who… didn’t survive the surgery.”

“Surgery?”

The man takes a seat beside him and cautiously lifts his t-shirt to reveal a fading red scar.

“I am assuming that is why they have looked for men like you and me, someone who is strong to carry a child and birth it,” he whispers solemnly.

“Wha- _How_?”

“I do not know or can even begin to understand,” he shrugs but there’s an air of resignation around him and Sam refuses to believe that there’s nothing they can do.

There’s a cold silence that fills the tensed room and despite his fear, Sam doesn’t scream anymore.  He sits confused, dazed.

“What will they do now?”

“I am assuming they have brought a new dominant,” he says, “that means we will be tested to see who we are compatible with in order to reproduce.”

Sam looks at him but no longer has the mental capacity to understand anymore.  There’s too much information, too much horror and fear incapacitating him.  Number Three gently lays him down on the bed again.  Sam doesn’t protest.  He’s tired, his bones ache and his head hurts.  A tear slides down his cheek and the man wipes it away.

Sam stares at him but doesn’t truly look at him.  Number Three bites his lips and leans in to whisper something in his ear.

“My name is Castiel.”

Sam watches as he walks to the other side of the room and lies down in his own bed but faces his direction and the lights automatically go out.  _Had he known that the lights would turn off?_ Sam wonders.

“Stop fighting Number Six, there is no escape.  The faster you accept your fate, the better.  This is who you are.  You are Number Six, and I am Number Three.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel’s breath hitches when he hears the lock churn and come undone.  The metal door screeches as it rasps against the cement floor of the damp cold room bathed in artificial lighting.  His pounding heart makes the blood rush to his head and he can’t hear the muffled shouts and struggling through his dizziness masked in darkness.  A shiver runs down his spine as a warm body is placed above him, handcuffs clasped tightly, preventing him from fighting back like he wants to.

“Hurry up and breed the bitch, make sure he orgasms,” a gruff voice orders.

He whimpers when something, something hard and slick, nudges his new entrance.  He feels as his partner thrashes against the binds, trying to fight the inevitable.  A disgusting crunch makes him gasp when his partner is completely sheathed inside of him.  The sudden burn and stretch of the wide girth makes him tighten around the thick (forced) erection.  It hurts, makes him ache, and he wants him out!  He wants to push him away but he can’t move. 

His legs are spread, ankles bound and knees bent to expose him bare.  A tear slides down his temple, a sharp pain running through his spine making him breathless.  Muted grunts reach his ears and he screams into the cloth around his mouth as a calloused hand wraps around his limp penis.  He doesn’t want it to be real but he can’t help the slow build of arousal in his belly.

He doesn’t last.

“I’m sorry.”

A small sob spills from his lips at those soft spoken words, sincere and regretful.  And he’s being filled to the brim, cum paints his walls and dribbles down his thighs as he arches his back at the feeling.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fight them off, I’m sorry, I’m sor–”

The warm body is ripped away from him and he tries to grab him but his hands are held back and he can’t break free.

He hears arguing.

“Shut Number Seven up!  Shut him up NOW!”

His heart skips a beat and his head lolls to the side, trying to hear that voice again (if even for a brief moment as the door closes and lock snaps shut).

He’s left shivering, cold, and sticky.

He’s left alone. 

* * *

 

The door is opened and both men groan awake.  Three days, one week, maybe a month.  He lost count of the endless days of boredom he spends locked inside four walls with a stranger he cares naught for.  He hears their precise steps before he’s yanked away from his cot of warmth.  Someone takes the opportunity to shove a pill down his throat and forces him to swallow it down with water.  It tastes bitter, like everything they serve.

Dean looks up at two men approaching him from behind, the lovely nurse with a permanent scowl on her pale face.  They call him Number Seven.  He’s about to raise his fist, not willing to be treated like a captive for their sick games.  His determination to escape is locked away when handcuffs are placed around his thick wrists.  He struggles against them until the skin is rubbed raw and a blind fold is placed over his eyes while a similar cloth is thrust inside his mouth instead of being tied.

They mock him and taunt him with the clink of the keys as he’s led outside his room, barefoot, exposed to the frigid air.

He’s pushed inside a room and he’s brought closer to someone else, their body heat making him shiver in delight.  He tries to hold back.  He’s losing control.  He’s losing against the instincts they’ve forced upon his body.

And he can’t help how his cock twitches in anticipation.  But he tries.  He tries so hard to fight it.  And he jerks back to get away but one of the men punches him and he hears a crack, his nose (great).  Someone tsks and to stop the bleeding they push a tissue inside the cavity of his bleeding nose.  Taking advantage of his brief disorientation, he's forcefully shoved inside a welcoming heat.  He groans at the tight hold around his erection.  It feels wonderful, velvety and warm.

They leave.

They watch.

From behind mirrored windows, they watch.

A soft whimper reaches his ear and he struggles to spit the damned rag out his mouth.

And as he moves, rocks to and fro, inside the warm body he apologizes, apologizes for being weak, for hurting him.  He begs for their forgiveness.

Even if he can’t touch, if he can’t caress and make the pain he’s caused go away, he whispers sincere, pain filled apologies.

And he feels as the younger man underneath him clenches around his length.  He thrashes and sobs as someone nears them, him, and does _something._ And he’s aware that an orgasm is being forced from his partner, but he can’t think beyond his own pleasure when that heat engulfs him too tight and right.  His climax is almost a surprise.

And he babbles nonsense to his partner, begging and promising that they’ll get out.

They notice his soft whispers and he's wrenched _away_ _from_ _him_.

He doesn’t want to go.  Doesn’t think he can leave after what he’s done to someone innocent.  He fights, he tries to break their hold to return to his side and hold him.

He doesn’t have the luxury to do so and he’s dragged away screaming until someone shoves the rag back into his mouth.

He sits on his bed, every spring digging into his skin.

They gave him clean clothes after they made him _breed_ someone; treat them less than human with such derogatory words.  Like they're animals.

The door opens and Number Thirteen walks inside with his head bent down.  His eyes are dull and the fire is gone.  He must have bred someone as well.

Something in his chest hurts as he looks at him.

He wonders where his brother is.

Is he a dominant?  A submissive?

Is he broken like they are?

Did he escape and run away before they caught him?  Or is he locked like an animal, treated like one too?

Disgusted he wishes he could scrub his skin raw.

He stares at his wrists, welts rising slowly.

There’s an ache on his face, he tries to ignore it.

Number Thirteen said when they first met:

“The first thing to do is to never forget who you are. “

“You are Dean.  Do not let them take that away from you.”

“ _You are Dean_.”

He keeps thinking of his partner, doesn’t even know the number he is.

He’ll find out.

For now, he’ll sit as if alone.


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't touch me!"

His hand swipes without conscious thought, his nails blunt and yet a fiery line appears underneath an outraged, glaring eye.  His heart stops as he chokes on his breath.  Eyes wide he tries to run away but walls surround them and he can't escape.  A smirk appears on her face, her unnatural cloudy eyes glistening in the bright lighting.  A snap of her fingers draws the attention of two men.  He screams, tries to fight them, but he can't.  His body feels sluggish, as if he were drugged.  He thrashes.  At least he thinks he does.

They laugh at his pathetic scrabble of words begging them to let him, his limbs flailing.  A gag is shoved into his mouth, hands bound to the railings of the hospital bed.  He tries to close his legs but he's undressed and his thighs are pried open effortlessly, soon held in stirrups.  He's bare and exposed.  He starts to shake his head in denial.

And the doctor walks inside with a raised, unamused brow.

Latex gloves snap into place and the, man's, _boy's_ eyes widen with terror.  He gasps around the gag, while fingers probe his entrance.  The woman looks expectantly and with a sigh the doctor nods, their patient doesn't seem to be aware of what they plan.  Instead he turns his gaze heavenward and prays.  He asks for help, for anyone, anything to save him.  The door creaks open and he looks at his only escape, tears running down his temple almost in resignation.

A man, hair disheveled but a pleased smile on his face, enters the room.  His merriment dies when his hazel eyes land on the submissive bound to the bed.  He opens his mouth to say something but all that comes out is a disgusted sound.  Someone takes the opportunity to shove a rag inside his mouth.  He's about to tug it out but realizes his hands are held back.  Without warning, he's thrust forward to the bed, the doctor stepping aside to observe from the sideline.  A notepad and pen in hand.

Without his consent, he's stripped naked, and to his embarrassment, he's aroused.  His mind trails to the moment they forced him to gulp the water.  The bitter taste had made him gag, the memory just as revolting.  He now knows why they did so.  They’ve drugged him to sexually perform, not that he needs Viagra to get it up, especially when his partner is gorgeous.  Had they met under different circumstances, he would’ve tried to court him.

Unfortunately, this is their present, their now and perhaps their future.

With a muffled groan he pushes inside the warm heat, his erection engulfed so perfectly.

A lock clicks and his hands hang limp, free.  But he doesn't try to rebel.  He braces his hands on the lithe man's hips and thrusts inside, his forehead resting on glistening skin.  He spits out the gag without _them_ noticing, his face turned away from the crowd.  He makes forced grunts and moans, lips pressed against a bare shoulder.

"D-Don't let them break you," he whispers.

The young man's breath hitches in his throat and he opens his eyes.

"I'm sorry, if I could, I would stop, I'm so sorry, please just... don't stop fighting," he begs.

Confused, the submissive wriggles on the bed and immediately gasps when the angle changes.  Despite the uncomfortable pain, he feels a spark of pleasure and he cries.  He wants to feel disgusted, but he can’t.

"Tell me," the man above him grunts, "tell me your number."

He starts to think back, tries to remember, tries to speak around the gag in his mouth.

He only manages a broken whimper as his orgasm hits unexpectedly, the undeniable feeling of being filled, bred, overwhelming.

A callous warm hand lands on his stomach, just below his navel, “Fight them; don’t you dare forget who you are, no matter how much they might want to break you, no matter what they do.  Fight for yourself and our baby.”

The man is grabbed away, taken from him, and he watches dazed as he’s interrogated for taking off his gag, demanding to know what he said.  When the man refuses and simply taunts them with a jest, a punch lands on his jaw.  The boy watches horrified as he spits blood, the back of his hand smearing red.

"No," he protests weakly, "don't."

A small reassuring smile is the only thing he sees before his partner is dragged away.

A trembling hand lands on his stomach as he watches the door close, a single tear falling as he silently vows to fight.  And no matter what these monsters have done, if they truly changed his body and defied their biology, he’ll fight and protect the baby.  A baby he probably carries inside his body, an innocent life.

He’s taken back to his room, and he winces as semen dribbles from his entrance down his leg, forgoing cleaning the mess to ensure conception.

They promise to check him within a few weeks before the door closes to his room.

He stands looking lost and his eyes land on the figure on the bed.

Castiel sits up when he hears the door and looks at him with concerned eyes.

With a wince he approaches his own bed and takes a careful seat, his hand landing on his stomach automatically.

“They bred you?” Castiel asks quietly.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I don’t think they’ve realized what they’re playing with.  There’s no way a man can carry a baby.”

“They… have a system.  Only healthy candidates are chosen but after three miscarriages they… they’re disposed of.  The nurses are not as discreet as they should be,” Castiel mumbles.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s their system Sa- Number Six,” Castiel shrugs.

“What happens to our partners then?”

“I don’t know.  I realized our numbers don’t match, how they pair us is a mystery,” he replies.

“What do you mean?”

“My partner is Number Seven but that’s all I know.  We’re not allowed to interact or know any information.  All we know is that we are compatible if we are paired.  But the nurses are still incompetent and mishaps like learning our numbers happen, this usually leads to punishment.”

“Punishment?” Sam says breathless.

Castiel simply bites his lip and silence submerges them.

* * *

 “What are you going to do with those two blabber mouths?”

The doctor sighs as he looks up, “Well, I suppose it was a matter of time.  Gabriel should know better but we’ll let Mr. Winchester off with a warning. Alastair why don’t you show him we mean business, I’ll take Mr. Hermóðr  to solitary confinement.”


	5. Chapter 5

The door rattles as it opens. Dean and Gabriel share a look as a man steps inside the room with confidence surrounding him.  He has a smile that promises pain and his hand grips around Dean’s bicep tightly.  Gabriel stands, about to commit an idiotic thing for a man he barely knows.  Alastair smiles at him and shakes his head, it’s not his time yet.  Gabriel swallows and can only watch as Dean is dragged away struggling and cursing.  He stands nearly frozen in his spot, obedient because in the doorway watching amused stands the doctor.

Gabriel glares at the man but his only response is the raise of his brows.  Gabriel can feel how his heart hammers inside his chest because despite it all, he knows the man before him.  He never understood his hatred but he knows he needs to stop it, now.

“Walk with me Gabriel,” The doctor orders.

Gabriel stays defiant and doesn’t so much as twitch as he looks at the man before him.  He can see his patience wearing thin and maybe that’s what he needs to try and understand.  Except the doctor isn’t stupid, he snaps his fingers and a small smirk twitches at his lips as two men grab his disobedient patient.  Gabriel struggles as they drag him to a part of the hospital he has never been before.  He’s pushed inside a dark room where the only source of light is from the open door.  The doctor reprimands his goons for being too harsh on his experiment before dismissing them.

“Gabriel,” the doctor begins.

“Don’t do this,” Gabriel says.

The doctor simply looks at him, his lips forming a thin line.

“I have to,” he replies as he blocks the only entrance and exit.

“No, you don’t.  Why are you doing this brother?” Gabriel asks.

“Because I need to be a step ahead of our brother Gabriel, you out of everyone should know.  Imagine the money we can make if this works,” his brother smiles.

“Money?  You’re doing this for petty competition?  Lucifer are you insane?”

“You wouldn’t understand, you never did before,” Lucifer sighs sadly.

“You’ve kidnapped innocent people to do experiments on them, you’ve killed for money?  Where have your ambitions and intentions gone?  What you are now is a monster,” Gabriel responds disappointed.

“A monster?  I’m creating this for everyone!  Imagine _all_ the homosexual couples who want children of their own, with my project we can achieve that,” Lucifer reminds.

“How?  By killing women to give males their equipment.  My lover died because of you!” Gabriel yells.

“It was unfortunate but for the best brother.  He wasn’t strong enough and now you still might even have a child,” Lucifer smiles genuinely.

“You kidnapped that boy and what about Castiel?  He’s your blood too, Lucifer,” Gabriel growls, “How can you do this?”

“You always were chatty.  You never liked our fights, true.  But you were the one who left home.  I asked you to come with me as my business partner and you declined.  Now, you’re still of use, too bad it has to be like this.  Until you learn to keep quiet you’ll be sentenced to solitary confinement.  If you continue, the next to be here will be your partner.  Don’t lie brother, I know you more than anyone and that boy now means something to you.  With or without a child.  After all, he is your type, I made sure to pick him especially for you and he’s strong, healthy for your baby,” Lucifer explains.

“Burn in hell,” Gabriel spits.

Lucifer looks at him with such sad eyes and with a heavy sigh he says, “You will receive your meals, no light and no life.  It pains me brother, it does.  For your own good, behave.  You’re sentenced to solitary confinement for a week.”

Gabriel watches as his brother turns his back on him and the door closes shut, a heavy lock clicking in place.  He buries his face in his hands and prays for it to end.

* * *

 Dean struggles as he’s led to a room filled with bright light, a metal table in the center.  He kicks and fights but he’s strapped down despite his efforts.  The man, Alastair, laughs as he watches him squirm.

“Guys like you need to learn their lesson the hard way.  Don’t make this a routine,” he smiles pleased.

Dean watches with wide eyes as Alastair pulls out a scalpel and makes a small incision on the sole of his right foot.  Dean screams at the sudden sharp pain.  Alastair tsks and makes another cut on his foot.  Dean watches as his face fills with glee.

“I love your screams.  You dominants always are rowdy,” he remarks.

“S-Stop,” Dean orders.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Alastair reminds as he stabs the scalpel through the side of his calf.

Dean’s eyes roll to the back of his head.  He hears a voice whisper tick tock methodically as if waiting for him to rouse.  His eyes flutter open minutes later to the blinding lights and he sees Alastair ready, the gloves protecting his hands are stained red but Dean fights the pain as he glares at him.

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asks through gritted teeth.

Alastair looks at him thoughtfully before answering with a smile, “because these are my orders.”

“Wh-Where’s my brother?  What did you do to him?” Dean asks.

“I pity you, so I’ll give you this much.  He’s been a good bitch, healthy and healing nicely.  Even after being bred the stitches are intact,” he answers honestly.

And yet Dean doesn’t believe him, “You’re lying.”

“Or, you’re in denial.  Don’t fret about Samuel was it? Well he’s fine, protected that is, until he miscarries.  Then the boss will decide if he lives or dies,” Alastair replies.

“No, no, no!  Let him go!  Please, he’s just a boy he doesn’t deserve this, please he’s innocent!”  Dean begs.

“Maybe you should start worrying about your own skin and perhaps of your own partner instead,” the man advises as he waves a new, clean, sterile, scalpel around.

The torture lasts for three days.


End file.
